They say it’s your day—
like that means something
you’re supposed to feel.
Like candles and wishes
are enough
to make it matter.
But it comes
like any other morning—
quiet,
unremarkable,
the same weight
waiting for you
before your feet
hit the floor.
Messages trickle in—
“happy birthday,”
short, bright,
easy to send.
You read them,
type back something grateful,
something light,
something that doesn’t say
how it actually feels.
Because how do you explain
that another year
doesn’t feel like a celebration?
That it feels like time passing
without asking
if you’re ready for it.
Like you’re still
the same person
trying to figure things out—
just older,
just more aware
of what didn’t turn out
the way you thought it would.
There’s no party
for that.
No candles
for the things you lost,
the versions of yourself
that didn’t make it here.
So the day moves on—
like it always does.
And you move with it,
smiling when you need to,
thanking people
for remembering.
But deep down,
it doesn’t feel like yours.
It just feels
like another day
you survived.
Through the Fog 